Aftermath
by thetrashypretzel
Summary: After the events of the Serial killer X incident, Ethan discovers the true aftermath of his experiences and needs a little bit of help after said venture.


Blood. Blood slathered all over his hands, coating his face, in red crusting lines - stripes - like battle paint, drawn out clumsily by his bony, trembling fingers - crimson and sticky and coppery. The stench was awful, it smelt of metal and sickness and ill-will and it was clinging to Ethan's skin and clothes, making the horrendous sickly, feeling as though they were inescapable. The new warm splatter of the substance from Leland only made him feel more disgusting, bile rising up into throat, tight and ever present. The serial killer in the car boot had lost his grip on his gun the moment he had shot himself, spraying blood over the two men standing before him. He could feel it, hot and oppressive, almost soupy in texture.

Ethan's own gun slithered from his fingers, clattering onto the concrete besides his shoes, the sound barely registered in his head, sounding distant and foggy. Malcolm Vanhorn's soft, accented voice didn't carry either it was a muffled gargle of sounds - the man felt as though he was being steadily consumed by _something_. His head felt light, almost like he were about to faint, yet he reminded rooted to the spot, bolt upright. He could sense something surrounding him, heavy, dark shadows slinking up his body, clawing up to his throat. Grasping.

The edges of his vision were fading, fuzzy and black and white - flickering into his head. Leland's body was beginning to slip away, all colour draining from his sight, heartbeat thrumming in his eardrums. Malcolm was no longer audible at all, he could barely note his surroundings. He was slipping, slipping further and further away from his body, far from this place. He could not longer feel the blood clinging to him or the stench in the air. Then monochrome. His surroundings were different, a building - decrepit and rundown, disgustingly coated in limescale and infested by weeds.

Why was he here? He man blinked and frown, vision clearly a little, he could see better; the splintered walls and precarious drops became visible. He - wait. Not he. What? The person shook themself over, blinking as colour seeped into their view. She. Why on Earth would she be referring to herself as a man. The woman blinked, bewildered at her own miniature moment of madness. Maybe she was losing her mind like some of the savages that roamed these unkempt hellholes.

She had a reason to be here: her child, the boy had gone wandering, off into the perilous city beyond their garden. Searching for fights and answers and all matter of stupid things which popped into the mind of a teenager. A blink. And she could've sworn she had walked further forward than originally perceived, she shook her head, staring down into a deep, black abyss. Maybe the boy had clambered down here, she mused quietly, aloud. Awkwardly she shuffled to the edge.

Blackness - white, grey. Fuzzy. Everything felt like it was flickering in and out of reality for a brief moment. A faint, persistent noise niggled the back of her mind. Then she was at the bottom of the hole, everything was fading slowly, colours dribbling from the scenery, the sound grew ever louder. Madness, perhaps. She took a small breath and a strange weight was lifted from her body.

His body. Ethan shook his head, trying desperately to understand what had just occurred - to compute why and how he had been with this woman. The dark around him was growing, shadows playing against the walls, hands outstretched for him and he tried to shout - ask for help. It came out wretched and pathetic, he drew back, fingers curling up into his cropped hair. A helpless, frightened wail left his lips as the shadows stalked closer still, forming bodies. Faces. Ugly, twisted features, mangled and distorted beyond recognition or comprehension.

Hands, they curled into his shoulders, and in a fit of terror Ethan swung, kicked, tore with his already ripped nails. Anything to get the fingers to stop holding his shoulders. Yet they persisted, squeezing his aching flesh, pulling his frame forwards. He closed his eyes and tried to scream again but something in his throat resisted and all he managed was a strangled cry. Then a sob. Broken and utterly petrified by what was happening. A noise ripped straight from the throat of a crumbling man, one who didn't know what was truly real anymore. Once he started, the crying wouldn't stop, tears came; hot, heavy and raw. With unrestrained fright, misery, confusion. Ethan was certain he was going mad. That everything was going to be like this now. Would it? Would he be stuck in this perception of the world? He bawled.

The sound was back; soft at first but still insistent. Firmness creeped into the noise, it was growing in volume. Ethan covered his ears, trying to hide away from everything. Then. _**Smack!**_ A sudden raw, burst of pain bloomed on his cheek and he choked on his phlegm, trembling. He could hear wind, rustling through the tree, harsh broken breathing that obviously came from his own body and another, calmer exhale from before him.

Once more he became aware of the filth coating himself and a new stinging, throbbing from his cheek. The ground was beneath him, rainwater soaking into his trousers. At some point he must have crumpled onto the road.

Finally he dared to open his eyes, squinting forward with uncharacteristic nervousness. Malcolm Vanhorn was crouched in front of him, one hand suspended in mid air. A red scrape over his cheek, where Ethan must have scratched him. Ethan didn't have the energy to speak or get up and control himself. So he merely sunk forward, body settled into Malcolm's broad chest, hunkering there like a frightened child. The other put up no fight, instead gathering Ethan closer, as though he were a precious, fragile object.

"I've got you, Thomas." His voice was soft and gentle again. "Gotta stay with me. Okay? I have you." Fingers clenched tighter to his back, squeezing him tentatively. "Come on..." He took Ethan's hands in his own, guiding him upwards, allowing the smaller man to hang close to his body, lifting an arm and wrapping about his own shoulder. Like an anchor. Ethan merely snivelled, frame sinking - broken - into the other. He let himself be walked to the passenger seat, eyes almost slipping shut, weariness beginning to set into his bones. "Stay awake Ethan." There was a firmness to his tone again, a command. "You can sleep when I know you're okay." Ethan's protests caught midway in his throat and he merely nodded, watching as the man pulled open the door to his car, sliding Ethan into the leather seat. He didn't have the energy to argue the almost cosseting behaviour.

He slithered into the leather chair, trying to force his weary eyes to remain open. They stared, widened and bloodshot - practically unseeing, into the dark landscape before him. The trees' branches danced on their trunks, waving at him through the gradually thickening fog. Only the headlights provided visibility, casting everything in a sickly yellow light. It made the shadows in the forest more prominent, playing with Ethan's already drained head and throbbing brain.

The car boot thumped shut suddenly and Ethan jolted in his seat, glancing about to watch Malcolm as he crossed about to the driver's side. The man settled into his seat immediately after clambering into the car, already turning the key in the exhaust. Ethan turned away, blinking out to the side as the car sprung into life, rumbling a moment before it set off.

"How are you feeling, Ethan?" Malcolm's eyes remained utterly focused on the road, despite it being rigidly straight. At least he wasn't spewing nonsense about _hate_ and tainted souls. The younger man swallowed.

"Dunno." It wasn't too far from reality, his body ached painfully and he was too fatigued to care much, no real emotions had set in yet.

"Are you hurt?" The other man's voice was a slight higher-pitched than usual - perhaps it was concern. Ethan wasn't sure how to take it.

"I think so.."

"Whereabouts?" He could sense Vanhorn's eyes boring into him and glanced back in his direction. Not quite meeting the intense gaze.

"Face.." He glanced towards the front window, blinking at the decrepit land stretched before him. The lights of the city were visible at the horizon. ".. my chest and left leg hurts. And the whole.. cut off finger." The throbbing aches in his body seemed to increase as soon as he acknowledged them, pain shooting up his spine. "Kinda just feels like.. stabbing." His voice hitched again, cutting off into a subdued squeak.

"I'll take a look when we reach somewhere safe." The words left no wriggle room, no way for Ethan to refuse the blunt offer from other man.

"Sure." He leant against the window, smearing congealed blood onto the pane, cheek pressed flat on the frigid glass. It was only then he realised that he didn't even know where they were heading, his flat was a no-go and much of the city was far too dilapidated to even attempt to shelter about. "..Where are we going?"

"I have a safe house, of sorts, just on the outskirts of the city."

"Ah." Ethan exhaled softly, eyes sliding shut. Sinking down into his seat

"-Ethan." There was a sudden jab of fingers the side of his neck. Not hard enough to hurt, but it was sharp, forceful. Ethan whined. "You must stay awake. We are almost there." Malcolm was eyeing him, harsh and gruff-toned. "Talk to me. Stay conscious."

Ethan turned to him, staring with bleary eyes. Nose curled a little.

"About what..?"

"Anything, Ethan. Hobbies, work, friends. Et cetera." Again the man's voice softened, more accented too. Heavy and slow.

"..Rosa."

"Pardon?"

"I don't know where she.. is. My friend. Rosa. She's SCU too." Malcolm hummed at his words.

"I'm sure that she is okay, SCU would take care of her, they're protective over their agents."

"Uh-huh." Ethan scoffed. Malcolm winced awkwardly, looking sympathetic.

"I'm sure she's fine." Then. "Are you close to her?" He blinked over to Ethan, with his head tipped just a little.

"Yeah. Probably my only friend." A small feeble smile attempted to creep onto his features. "Known her for a long time." It was watery and tired as hell.

"Will she be worrying about you?"

"Probably. She does that quite a lot." Ethan glanced down at his fingers, fiddling with the skin, picking at it.

"..Ah, I see. Are you romantically involved with her? Dating, I mean?"

"Nah, she doesn't swing that way. Pretty sure she's sorta seeing someone right now anyway." He shrugged. "We're just good friends." Malcolm let out a long resounding hum, lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line.

Then car swerved almost violently as Malcolm turned down a small side road, it jolted a slight at the potholes scattered over the crumbling surface. Ethan stared down at his feet for a long while, absently counting the bumps and dips as the car rumbled over them. It didn't bother him, being bumped up and down, he had been thrown about enough today to become practically immune to the discomfort of it. His returned to watching the trees carefully, scanning for any sign of a threat within the towering trunks and sparse shrubbery, nothing seems to be moving besides the shadows that the shapes of the forest cast onto everything. He blinked, counting another pothole, only to spot a bloodied lump of fur on the ground. Roadkill.

It was a brief sighting, yet it was another to cause thick, sickening bile to crawl up in his throat. He swallowed it down with an uncomfortable shudder, unsure to why a dead animal was setting off the desire to vomit when he had been killing people all day, only experiencing the need to heave once or twice. Perhaps it was how tired he was becoming, maybe his brain was beginning to register anything slick with blood a reason to throw up. Didn't that imply PTSD? A frown. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts to notice when Malcolm inevitably pulled the car to a stop. Only noting they were no longer moving after the older man had clambered out of the driver's side.

Ethan reached over and opened his door, awkwardly pulling himself out the car, hanging onto the body of it in an effort to remain on his feet. His legs had turned to jelly and his head felt exceptionally light. He glanced over to where Malcolm had wandered to, eyeing what looked like a holiday cabin, almost in perfect condition - aside from the windows, which the man must have boarded up. He shuffled a bit closer, using the car hood as leverage, watching Malcolm unlock the door.

The man glanced over his shoulder, staring incredulously at Ethan for a few seconds, pushing the door open without looking at it.

"Stay there. I'll carry you in when I've checked the place over." He turned to the doorway and wandered in, leaving Ethan no room to protest his insistent coddling. So the smaller man merely slid down onto the floor thoughtlessly, he wouldn't make it to the house without dragging his weary body on hands and knees. He was too tired. One of his hands rested on the slimy mud, coating his already dirty palms in the grime. He exhaled, blinking into the dark forest, peering at the shapes, sniffing loudly, nose stuffy with mucus. He swallowed down the nasty phlegm, nose wrinkled up at the sour taste of his own mouth.

Footsteps caused the man to raise his head, Malcolm was making his way back towards him, brisk and almost tense looking. He stood before Ethan for a moment, brows scrunched. "Why didn't you just stay in the car?" Came the exasperated muttering, the man slid his hands beneath Ethan's arms, hefting him upright before taking the small man and essentially tossing him over his broad shoulder. Ethan grunted painfully, his hips were digging into the other man's shoulder, the already aching, bruising bones pressing hard against the other. The man's torso hung down, swaying back and forth as Malcolm walked. His arms drooped uselessly like wet noodles, and the pain from his newly hacked off finger seemed to intensify.

Though he didn't complain, as soon as they crossed into the threshold Ethan found himself exhaling with relief - the comfort of being somewhere safe and warm was dawning on him. He spotted a sofa as Malcolm made his way down a corridor and up a little flight of stairs, carrying Ethan effortlessly, as though he were a small sack of potatoes. He wanted nothing more than to crawl onto the sofa, curl up and sleep; but alas, Malcolm would not be allowing that just yet.

He could hear another door creak open and he was lifted into what appeared to be a bedroom, with a little nightstand, mirror, and undoubtedly a bed. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, Ethan wrinkled up his features. He really did look like hell. Blood was streaked over his features - mixing into a disgusting congealed substance with mud and sweat, skin that was a sickly grey colour - a jarring contrast compared to his usual olive complexion, his nose was still dribbling blood, one of his eyes was closing up a little - purple, green, yellow about the lid, a swollen nose, missing finger - blood still splattering off the stump.

"I look awful.." He murmured, blinking at himself, looking at his worn out reflection. "Really.. not good."

"I'm glad you can see where my concern stems from." Ethan found himself set down onto the wooden floor for a second, Malcolm still leaning over-top of them. He blinked dopily upwards.

"I'm just going to get a towel, so you don't cover the bed in mud and your blood." The man turned and disappeared, strolling away into what Ethan assumed to be an en-suite. He found himself slithering down onto his side, eyes staring - barely able to remain vaguely conscious. A weak groan escaped him, which it petered into another yawn. "..Ethan." A warning note crept into Malcolm's voice as he approached the crumpled man on his floor. The met eyes and the firm, irritated look faltered. "Look. It won't be long now, wait until you're patched up at least." He began to lay a few towels over the crisp sheets, brushing them down until they too were relatively flattened.

At first, Ethan twisted - preparing to clamber up onto the bed - but he was grasped firmly about the middle by Malcolm who lifted him without expending any effort and plonked him down onto the towels. The man groaned and Malcolm winced a slight, looking sympathetic and pitying of the smaller man.

Said man swallowed tightly, looking notably uncomfortable.

"So, what now?" He mumbled.

"You need to take off those clothes, they're not going to help you in any way." Malcolm approached the door to the en-suite again. "I'm just going to get a first aid kit and some warm water. Remove the clothing, just down to your undergarments." A short, sharp laugh.

"..Sure." Ethan probably appeared about as ecstatic as he was feeling. Distinctly not. Awkwardly he shifted upwards, carefully beginning to shrug off his stolen jacket, letting the large thing slip onto the floor, surprised at the weight it had set upon his shoulders. Next went the shoes, removed shakily and without much grace - promptly dropped alongside the discarded jacket. Slowly he began to slide off the rest of the muddied, blood-smeared clothing: shirt - wrestled off, trousers - wriggled out of, socks - torn away from his aching soles.

Finally he was freed from the oppressive layers of clothing, yet there were coatings of grime and grease still clinging to his filthy, sweat covered skin. His wounds were slicked shut by unruly amounts of blood and wet flesh, which were most definitely not any actual help. He whined, writhing around onto his back, looking tired.

It was a moment before Vanhorn returned first aid kit tucked beneath one arm and a large tub of water containing a cloth in the other. He set them down on the nightstand, first reaching for the cloth and wringing it out. A pause, he glanced down at Ethan.

"Just going to clean you and wash out all the wounds, I'll apply disinfectant soon after." And with that he sat down beside the towels, both of his turtleneck's sleeves were rolled up and his overcoat had been placed elsewhere. Gently he ran the warm, moist material of the cloth over Ethan's cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, slowly beginning to wash away the blood splatter. He softly eased it over the other's bruised eye, then down across his split lips. For such a large man Vanhorn was exceptionally careful, warily sliding the cloth over some more scratches, then Ethan's exposed throat. He gently pressed against the tender skin, continuing washing off the blood splatter -particularly careful about the vulnerable areas.

He seemed particularly warily about a awful looking gash to Ethan's chest, running just beneath his pectoral tissue, it was long but probably appeared deeper than it actually was. He dabbed gently over the wound and Ethan jolted suddenly, pain shooting up through the nerves, face screwing up in shock. Malcolm cringed, sympathetic to the other's pain. "Apologies..." Then began to wash further across his body, over his softer belly and about his muddied waist.

It was Ethan's arms that were the real issue; the moment Malcolm started to slide the warm cloth over the torn skin, Ethan wriggled, a sharp gasp slipping from his lips. It continued in this manner: Malcolm washing over the opened cuts, cleaning off the black, crusting mud and clots of blood and Ethan gasping and writhing when the other made contact with the sensitive areas, which caused the other to murmur a small succession of 'sorry's. The previously pristine bowl of water was accumulating a darker quality, cloudy and murky from the mud that had been dribbled in.

"Ow." Mumbled Ethan, the moment the man stopped washing off the blood from his finger-stump, his body felt better at least - no longer caked in filth. "Ouch." He was at a lost at what else to add, there wasn't much to stay besides: That fucking hurt. And it felt wrong to swear about the older man, so he didn't.

"I'm sorry to tell you, Ethan, but the disinfectant will sting a lot more than the water."

Oh shit. He had forgotten about that.

"It's fine." He shifted his body again, one hand curling discreetly into the towel, twisting up the fabric in the palm of his hand - latching on just in case. Vanhorn didn't seem to notice, and if he did, then the man made no comment. Instead, he opened up the med kit, producing a little bottle of translucent liquid, squinting at the label momentarily, before popping off the lid and setting it on the side. He lifted small cotton wool pads off the bedside cabinet, holding them to the bottle and allowing them to soak up a decent amount of it. He blinked at Ethan.

"Apologies in advance," he placed the bottle down again, brows bunched, "this will take a little moment." Slowly, he grasped Ethan's damaged hand, shifting it to reach the other's stump. He was gentle when pressing the wool against the open wound, dabbing the opened muscle lightly. Despite the obvious attempt to be tender the disinfectant caused a sharp stinging pain to shoot up his arm, Ethan groaned, biting his lip hard. It was just a painful on the next wound, over his chest, and the ones in succession after that.

It was a long ten minutes of cleansing, softly washing over the scrapes of Ethan's flesh, apologies at slightly too hard applications of pressure. But finally it was done. And both men seemed relieved.

"Stitches won't be necessary for most of these Ethan." Vanhorn was squinting again, all his stress and laugh lines visible on his aging face. Ethan realised he didn't know how old this man even was. Younger than Ethan's father, but obviously much older than Ethan himself. The detective pinned him to be in his mid-to-late fifties, which he looked pretty rough for. Then again - his nephew was a psychotic serial killer, that was enough to turn most people grey. As he thought Malcolm had produced a roll of bandages from the med kit, digging out a few safety pins, a pair of scissors and placing them down.

"Which ones are the worst?" There was a little more strength in his tone, a small comfort to him.

"This," he indicated to Ethan's chest, "and this." A finger jabbed in the direction of a stab in Ethan's left leg. "But I'm probably going to sew up the one on your cheek too, it'll heal better that way."

"Sure," Ethan hissed in through his teeth, "yeah." Vanhorn's eyes lingered on him; so blue - sharp and akin to ice in colour, with golden rimming just about the pupil, flecks straying into the edges of his irises. Like little gold-shot ribbons. They were reddened at the corners, veins trailing over into the whites of his eyes. They were nothing like the odd grey-brown of his nephews, whose were so pale that his pupils seemed to take up the majority of his eyes. His weary incessant staring probably made Malcolm feel worse, as his expression twisted into one of concern.

"You'll feel a lot better when you wake up in the morning clean and patched up, rather than still caked in dirt and bleeding, I assure you Ethan." The man tried a smile, but the grimace didn't quite reach his eyes. It was well intended however, so Ethan merely huffed shortly, closing his eyes and forcing his body to relax just a little.

He froze, all muscles immediately tensed up abruptly at the cool pressed of a needle against the skin of his chest. It caused his muscle to clench tightly with nerves, and he had to swallow down a heavy lump in his throat. Malcolm petted his arm, probably worried for him, judging his response. Then he pressed the little, slim needle into the hard flesh. One of Ethan's arms flew up to his mouth, biting down on the skin to muffle the howl of pain he let out. Another pat on his chest, and the needle was woven through the flesh - pulling the split skin together. It was a horrendously painful ordeal, stinging and sharp and raw.

Ethan had needed stitches and staples before, but they had always been done in a hospital, with anaesthetic, not like this. He heaved in another harsh breath of air, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. Malcolm continued without hesitation, sewing the skin up, with neat little loops of thread. It was brisk and unaffected by Ethan's occasional whimpers and writhing.

Finally he pulled away, after tying the stitches up. "Now, just your leg and face." He murmured, Ethan groaned, moving his arms to cover his eyes. Vanhorn chuffed. "I know, I'm sorry." Before he started on his leg, small, sharp movements as he knitted up Ethan's thigh, making no comment on the obvious burn marks also present on his legs - not quite third degree but definitely apparent. Ethan was grateful, he didn't wish to explain the story behind those particular scars. It wasn't as bad as his chest but still throbbed awfully, causing little squeaks to escape him. "There." The man moved forwards, cleaning off the needle again.

"Just.. leave it. I don't mind a scar like this on my face," he waved his arm at the man, gesturing for him to leave the cut on his face, trying to ignore the strange stretching in his chest, as the hold on the stitches was strained. Malcolm nodded, setting down the instrument and scooped up the bandages. Already beginning to wrap about the man's leg in them, swathing the stitched up wound in the fabric tightly. Finishing with confidence and a safety pin into the material.

"You need to sit up, I'll help," he set down the roll of bandages, wrapping one arm beneath Ethan's smaller frame, guiding him upwards, Ethan grunted, grasping at the man's shoulders to steady himself. "Okay, just hold yourself there." He detached himself from Ethan's grip, leaning over to grasp at the bandages. "Lift your arms up." Waiting, for Ethan to complete the surprisingly painful task, upon which he shifted closer beginning to wind the bandages about his chest, layering up tight wraps over the wound. It soon covered the majority of his torso, down to his stomach. "There." He stuck a safety pin in.

"Thank you.." Ethan smiled weakly and Malcolm winced but it was warm, the younger man frowned.

"What?" He murmured.

"Blood on your teeth." Was the response. "I'll find you a spare toothbrush for later." He stuck the roll of bandages into the kit, producing plasters from the thing soon after. "Now just the small ones." And he begun to apply the little plasters to the less severe wounds, on Ethan's face, arms and legs.

Finally, he seemed content with his work, pulling back with a considerate look. Ethan exhaled, easing back onto the towels, with his eyes sliding shut.

"Thanks Vanhorn, I, uh, it's appreciated."

"It's quite alright Thomas," he could hear Malcolm gathering up his medical items, "I didn't want you sleeping in that state, a rather awful health hazard."

"Yeah." A pause. "What about Leland?" Vanhorn audibly froze, feet not brushing the ground. Exhale. "Sorry, I just.. wondered if you were-"

"-No, no it's fine Thomas, it's not your fault.. He chose to shoot himself, you had no role in that." He disappeared into the bathroom. "I'll.. probably check the body after you feel a slight better." The footsteps stopped near the bed, and the mattress sunk down near Ethan's side as Vanhorn sat beside him.

Ethan open his eyes, blinking at the older man hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were shut, wrinkles all visible.

"I can come with, if you want company." He reached over and patted the other's back, slightly uncoordinated. Despite the manipulation and using he felt an aching sympathy for him - the guy had just lost his nephew. A deranged serial killer, but, family nonetheless.

"I'll be fine, thank you for offering though." Malcolm cast a glance over towards Ethan, tired but wearily thankful. "Would you like me to take those towels, so you can sleep under the actual blankets?"

"Oh, yeah please." Ethan shifted. "Could you grab my phone? I feel like I owe Rosa a call."

"Of course." Malcolm reached down, removed the phone from the clip on Ethan's bag, he set it on the side, in order to tugged the towels out from under the other's body. The man managed to writhe beneath the duvet, relaxing under cool sheets. "Here."

"Thank you." He took the phone that was offered to him, flicking through the contacts and finding the one listed: "Angel Rosa", pressing the call button.

She picked up almost immediately.

"Ethan? Jesus, I've been trying to reach you for ages!"

"Hey, Rosa, I'm sorry I was caught up." He smiled weakly, watching Vanhorn as he slipped into the bathroom again.

"Where are you?" She exhaled loudly into the receiver, he could note her, settling back in her chair. "I can pick you up, if you need."

"No, I'm at friend's. I'm fine, thank you. Just," he yawned, "relaxing."

"Oh. That's good." A sudden stop. "What happened to SKX?"

"Shot himself."

"Damn. Really?" A huff of surprised air. "I'm glad you're okay though, now we can start badgering Farrel about that suspension."

Ethan snorted. Leaning into the pillows.

"Yeah, hopefully he'll let up after a while. He's a pushover and we all know it." Rosa chuckled as Malcolm entered the room, blinking over at him, holding a toothbrush with paste on it. "I'm more worried about the upper FBI." The older man set the toothbrush down on the bedside cabinet, gesturing towards the door before leaving. Ethan mouthed a "thanks".

"You kidding? We know now that you're a star child of theirs, they won't give you up."

"I don't know. It feels. Weird.. I'm not sure I can." He frowned.

"Ouch, hopefully you'll work something out, we could always meet up at that old diner you like."

"Yeah, that could work." A yawn. "How about two days from now?"

"Sure thing man, I hope you sleep well. Tell your friend I said 'thanks'." She chuckled very softly. "I trust you're in safe hands."

"Yeah."

"Welp, I'll leave you with that. Rest well. Don't die you idiot."

"Thank you Angel. See you later."

"Adios." With that, she hung up, her phone line going completely dead. Ethan set down the mobile, settling down fully, his eyes falling shut.

And first the time in months he slept just fine.


End file.
